


After the Vows

by impossibilities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Pining, Self-Harm, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibilities/pseuds/impossibilities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was the before, then there was the after. That was it. The only things in the universe that mattered."</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Vows

**Author's Note:**

> The bad grammar is on purpose guys.

Walking was tedious. Talking was worse. Pretending to be perfectly alright and _happy_ was nearly impossible, but he had to try. There was no way he would let John down like that. The wedding was far worse than he could have imagined, even with the thrill of a major case being resolved to temporarily distract him. He was in his mind palace all through the vows, struggling against the force with which the padlocked room with his emotions inside was trying to open itself. His main focus throughout the entire ceremony and party afterwards was keeping the blank, stoic face of which he was so famous. Emotions, to Sherlock, were horrible things, always letting you down at the worst moment, being uncontrollable even to his own brilliant mind. They were best locked up tightly behind a sturdy wall of steel, an impenetrable fortress of unreadable expressions and clever comebacks. But this wedding, this tiny event that should not matter in the slightest had managed to rip apart nearly all of his defences and leave him with a feeble umbrella in the midst of a hurricane.

His best man speech had apparently been successful, as he had so desperately hoped. As sick as he felt at the prospect of the wedding, it was for John, so it was of the utmost importance that it went off without a hitch. Unbeknownst to his friend, Sherlock had organised nearly the entire event. He had phoned numerous catering companies individually to interview them and find the best one. He had slyly hinted to Mary what some of John’s favourite things were when she was choosing the design aspects of the venue. He had even taught himself to origami the napkins into models of the Sydney Opera House for an added decorative flair.

John’s stag night was a perfectly planned out event. Sherlock had figured out the exact amount of alcohol that would be acceptable to consume, but his plot went awry. John had managed to spike their drinks with something stronger behind his back, and they were both far more than tipsy by the end of the night. Sherlock had just enough sense left in him to control his tongue somewhat and not let anything important slip to his friend, or that friendship may have been utterly destroyed. When John accidentally laid his hand on the man’s knee, however, he almost lost all control. In the morning, after waking up to Lestrade in the prison cell and hitching a taxi, Sherlock tried desperately to recall anything compromising he may have said or done the previous night. Thankfully, he drew a blank, besides that embarrassing time with the client (who later proved to be instrumental in solving the case at John’s wedding). The pair travelled home in a silence mostly caused by their splitting headaches and dreadful hangovers.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------

 

Speaking, laughing, _breathing._ Smiling, brave faces, fake cheery hugs, _“I’m so happy for you”_ on replay out of his mouth. Impossibilities that came true. Ripping apart his insides, making him lose his mind. There was the before, then there was the after. That was it. The only things in the universe that mattered. _Before_ Sherlock had met John, his life was a whirlwind of crime scenes, drugs, and empty, emotionless, lonely nights. _After_ were the same crime scenes with less cocaine, and for once in his life feigning the happiness emanating from him was unnecessary. _Before_ Sherlock played dead for two years, he didn’t have to worry about weddings and John and _JohnJohnJohn_ leaving him. _After_ was a crushing weight on him that was nearly unbearable. _Before_ the wedding, Sherlock wasn’t okay. _After_ the wedding, he didn’t think he could ever be okay again.

And she was pregnant. _Pregnant._ With _his_ _John’s_ child.

Sanity was an impossibility.

 _“Who leaves a wedding early?”_ Mrs. Hudson’s earlier comment rings in his ears like a gunshot as he walks out, physically, mentally, emotionally unable to spend another minute in there.

Unneeded. Unwanted. Unloved. _Alone._

 _“_ _Marriage changes you as a person in ways that you can't imagine.”_

Facing the truth was horrifying and easily the hardest thing he had ever done. He had lost John. It was all a lost opportunity, one that ate away at his mind and body until he was sitting alone in 221B with a needle in his arm and fresh scars on his wrists. Wasting away from malnourishment, ribs clearly visible, taking no cases and sitting, just sitting. Mind sharp as always despite his feeble attempts to dull the edges. Thanking every god he didn’t believe in that he was alone so no one could see him fall apart, but simultaneously crumbling more at the sight of the empty chair across from him. He managed to pull himself into that chair, John’s chair, eventually, and sobbed for love lost to fear.

**Author's Note:**

> Also I desperately need a beta, as you can tell, and I do most of my writing from 1 to 4 in the morning...oops.


End file.
